


Thought and Consideration

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Begging, Caning, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Fingerfucking, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Mirror Sex, Mirrors, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink, Punishment, Self Confidence, Undue Seriousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre notices that Enjolras is tending towards a few unhealthy attitudes as of recently. He takes his submissive aside and gets him to consider his friends as much as his cause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thought and Consideration

Enjolras let out a soft sigh, closing his eyes as he removed his clothing. Each garment was laid aside, neatly folded atop his desk, and Combeferre watched him. Enjolras felt the other’s eyes on him constantly, and felt no discomfort, made no complaint. It was pleasant, secure, to have Combeferre keeping so close an eye on him, especially on a night such as this.

A night where Enjolras put down his title of  _chief,_ and where Enjolras served readily.

Combeferre propelled him forwards with a hand steadily at his lower back, and though Enjolras didn’t need his guiding hand, would have obeyed Combeferre’s every word without a physical help, he enjoyed the sensation of that warm weight on his skin.

Enjolras obediently moved onto the bed, first on his hands and knees, and then with his hands braced across the iron framing at his bed’s foot. Enjolras’ bed was a thing of extravagance, laden with thick blankets, a healthy mattress, with iron framing at its head and its foot. Here, Enjolras indulged.

Combeferre adjusted his posture with silent touches - adjusted the position of Enjolras’ hands and his fingers, tilted his chin up to bare a slender neck to the room, fixed his posture so that his back had a graceful curve and he did not slouch, spread his thighs, fixed the position of his feet. 

Enjolras was as mute as his dominant throughout all this attention, making no effort to interrupt, to protest. Why should he? Combeferre appreciated perfection, and his hands were gentle, pleasant although clinical on Enjolras’ skin. This was preparation for whatever Combeferre had planned for that evening’s play, and Enjolras was immensely grateful.

His breathing slowed as Combeferre pulled away, and he dissolved into contemplation and thought, considering what Combeferre might do to him this evening. Their scenes together had been varied enough, thus far. One night, Combeferre had kept Enjolras bound and had dripped candle wax onto his skin; another, he had lain back and had Enjolras bring himself down upon his cock for an age, forcing the blond to make use of athletic thighs that had ached for hours afterwards; yet another, Combeferre had blindfolded him and brought him to orgasm without a hand on his member at any time.

Combeferre was as skilled at this game as he was at anything: Enjolras firmly believed that dominance was Combeferre’s true vocation, and of course, never mentioned this to souls that were not his two seconds.

Combeferre re-entered the room, and Enjolras regarded him. He had not noticed the doctor had left, but he was prone to losing himself to contemplation when left to rest before a session of play - and indeed, he was verily certain that was the point. Combeferre brought a looking glass with him, a large, pompous thing, and Enjolras’ lip twitched as he regarded it.

"We shan’t keep it, Enjolras: you needn’t look so displeased." Combeferre said, his tone full of tease, and Enjolras didn’t even make an attempt to hide his ever so slight smile. Combeferre, of all men, knew Enjolras better than any other.

He hung the thing on the wall, and Enjolras regarded its fixings with undisguised contempt - it was likely exorbitant, ridiculously so, and he was certain Combeferre had borrowed it, but from whom, Enjolras had no idea.

"Monsieur?" The question was simple, and so was the answer.

"Look at yourself." Combeferre ordered cleanly, and he stood beside the looking glass, his arms crossed, his lips pressed together (not, of course, out of displeasure; this was merely Combeferre’s resting face). Enjolras obeyed.

He took in the tousle of his hair, tied messily at his neck with a black ribbon, at the pink of his lips and the slight rosiness to his cheeks in anticipation of the night to come, at the curve of his own neck, at the small, thumb sized mark on his collarbone that Courfeyrac had bitten into him earlier, pinning him to his desk as Enjolras protested even as he laughed.

There were few men with which Enjolras could be so undignified and free: with his revolution, his cause, with French society, Enjolras was a man of certainty. With Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he was a boy still with his worries, his anxieties, his failings.

They all were, if truth were to be told, but of course, it rarely is. 

But while around his two seconds Enjolras had his worries and his anxieties and his failings, he had also his laughter, his tears, tight embraces, the squeak Enjolras denied he made when being pinned to the ground. Enjolras had his life here, and though the cause was always his priority, here it was mingled with baser things.

And here, on Enjolras’ bed, in front of Combeferre and this evening, a ridiculously expensive mirror, he had his submission.

Enjolras contemplated his reflection carefully, and his eyes went lower, over his chest, his nipples, to the ever so slight dusting of hair visible between his legs, and to his member hanging half-hard between his thighs. Enjolras was not shy of his body, nor particularly excited about it - it was merely a vessel, for the most part, until such occasions as these, when he indulged. He looked to Combeferre.

The other man was  _tout habillé_  where Enjolras was utterly naked, and he looked as well put- together as he ever did; his vest was perfectly uncreased, his shirt similarly pressed, his cravat tied in an exemplary knot, his trousers clean, his boots well-polished. “Monsieur?” He asked again, and even though the query was vague, Combeferre gestured the looking glass.

"Tell me what you see." And even though it was a command, it came in a soft, gentle tone. Not demanding, and yet intrusive, a request that could never be ignored: such was Combeferre’s way.

"I see myself, sir."

"Expand." Enjolras gazed upon his guide, unblinking, before looking back to his reflection.

"I see myself. My hair requires a comb, I am flushed, ready to be taken at your mercy." And Enjolras said these words matter-of-factly, because while he wanted to be touched, he saw no value in attempting to tempt Combeferre’s early mercies - Combeferre’s patience, his temperance, would outweigh Enjolras’ powers of seduction on any day, at any time. "There is a mark from where Courfeyrac bit me this afternoon."

"Yes." Combeferre agreed. There was silence, and the doctor regarded Enjolras for a few moments more. His gaze was calculating, but not expectant, so Enjolras remained still. The stance had become a slight strain on his fatigued muscles now, but Enjolras was stubborn, and he knew he would be here for a time longer. It was always worth it. "Tell me  _who_  you see.”

"I-" Enjolras stopped short, looking from his dominant to himself. "I see a young man. He- he?"

"He."

"He is four and twenty. He is blond, handsome enough, with blue eyes. He looks younger than his years for the sake of fair skin and a hairless jaw, and his countenance is-" Enjolras studied his face in a detached fashion. "Severe." He decided after a moment’s pause.

"More." Combeferre prompted, and Enjolras inclined his head slightly before replacing his chin’s position to where Combeferre had guided it earlier.

"He is a student of law, a lucky man. He is a revolutionary, intent on affecting social reform."

"What is his name?" Combeferre asked, and Enjolras regarded him quizzically, interested as to the other man’s motives.

"Benoît Enjolras, sir."

"Continue."

"He is a revolutionary." Enjolras repeated, and he bit his lip, uncertain what else to say. "And he is not alone?" He glanced to Combeferre, who returned his expression with a resolute nod. "He is not alone. He works with a group of men called  _les amis de l’ABC_ , and moreover, with his two seconds, a guide and centre where he is the chief. They form an effective triumvirate.”

"What are his seconds’ names?"

"Alexander de Courfeyrac-" Combeferre’s lip quirked, knowing very well how their good friend would respond to that. "-and Émile Combeferre, monsieur."

"And  _les amis_? What are their names?”

"Marius Pontmercy, the newest addition. Gaston Lesgle - Bossuet. Jules Bahorel. Laurent Feuilly, Guillaume Joly, and Jehan Prouvaire, sir."

"And?"

"That is all, sir." Combeferre affected Enjolras with a severe look. Enjolras swallowed, and reluctantly added, "And Aimé Grantaire, sir."

"Quite. Do they care for this Benoît,  _les amis_?” Enjolras stared at him.

"I believe so, monsieur."

"Why?"

"Because he is their leader, because they are united for a common cause, monsieur." Combeferre  _tsk_ ed. “Is that not so?” Enjolras was uncertain now, unsure, and doubtful. 

"You think this is why all of them care for Benoît? For his oratory skill, his leadership?"

"Not Grantaire."

"Why is Grantaire there then, if not for the cause?"

"Because he finds Benoît strange, inspiring perhaps. He believes in Benoît, and little else. He admires him." It was odd to be talking about himself in this fashion, detached, in third person, and yet their discourse was as fluid as it could be.

"And the others? Do they not admire Benoît Enjolras?"

"I- I don’t-" Enjolras bit at his lip, worrying the skin there with cruel teeth until a sharp tut from Combeferre convinced him to release it. "Yes, sir?"

"Is that a query or an answer?"

"An answer, sir. Yes, sir." Enjolras decided after a moment’s worth of desperate deliberation.

"Why?"

"Because he is a leader, sir. Because he is passionate."

"Why else?"

"I don’t know, sir." Enjolras’ words were quiet now, tinged with hesitation. "Please, monsieur, I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what you’re asking me."

"Remember that your safety word is Patria." Combeferre advised, and Enjolras nodded obediently as Combeferre moved forwards, toward the bed. He removed his boots before he moved behind Enjolras, between the blond’s spread thighs to mould against his backside, and Enjolras looked at Combeferre and himself in the looking glass ahead of them. " _Les amis_ admire Benoît Enjolras for many reasons.” Combeferre said, a hand moving very gently over Enjolras’ thigh - a comfort. “Bahorel thinks him a good leader, but moreover, a good man of strong morals. Feuilly admires his respect of those around him, above him, beneath him. Joly admires his honesty firmly, and Bossuet believes Enjolras integrity to be admirable above all things.”

Enjolras stared at his reflection in the mirror as Combeferre continued in a quiet tone. “Marius Pontmercy admires Enjolras’ opinions, although their politics do not mesh soundly; he admires Enjolras’ strength of soul. Prouvaire admires Enjolras’ words for they come from his very heart, although he is certain to say so would cause the leader to scoff.” Prouvaire was correct, as always. “And Aimé Grantaire believes Enjolras’ passion is the route to Heaven on Earth, for he believes in light even though darkness is all-encompassing.”

"What of Courfeyrac and Combeferre?" Enjolras asked in a tiny voice, and Combeferre leaned, pressing a leisurely, kind kiss to the back of the blond’s neck.

"I am glad you inquired." He said, and he looked up, meeting Enjolras’ eyes in the mirror. "Courfeyrac believes Enjolras to be a strong man, an intelligent man, but most importantly, a good man. He loves to see Enjolras laugh because his joy is pure and unadulterated, likes to argue with him - as Grantaire, as Pontmercy, as Feuilly - because to see his passion unbridled is a thing of beauty although it is furious. He loves Enjolras as a brother, for Enjolras would fight not only for his freedom, but for his smile."

This is true; Enjolras cannot argue.

"And Combeferre?"

"Émile Combeferre adores Enjolras." The doctor said, with such an air of finality that Enjolras blinked. Combeferre kept Enjolras’ gaze over the glass and gold rims of his spectacles, particular, concentrated. "Combeferre loves Enjolras’ sweet smile, his joy, his optimism, as his own, for Enjolras is a man not only of internal beauty, but of a sturdy soul." Enjolras swallowed hard, and nearly bit his lip again before Combeferre sharply pinched his thigh and stopped him from doing so. "He values the gift of Enjolras’ submission greatly."

"Oh." Enjolras said softly. 

"And as it pains  _les amis_ , it pains Combeferre to realize that Benoît Enjolras thinks himself nothing as a man, but everything as a vessel of the cause.”

"Oh." Enjolras whispered again, because Combeferre looked earnest and honest in a way that Enjolras was very familiar with witnessing and completely unfamiliar with experiencing fixed upon his person. 

"Do you understand what I’m telling you, Enjolras?  _Comprends-tu_?” Enjolras shuddered as Combeferre began to trace his spine with a dozen kisses, skilled hands warm and strong and heavy on his hips. “You have value, you have worth, beyond the barricades. That is this evening’s lesson. We admire you, respect you, we  _adore_  you, not as a leader only, but as a man.”

"Yes, monsieur."

"Now, that aside, if you will permit me, I wish to take you rather thoroughly to pieces."

"I permit it, I  _beg_  for it.” Combeferre’s clothed torso was pressed against Enjolras’ back, his face nuzzled in the blond’s neck, when he met Enjolras’ eyes again in the looking glass.

"You needn’t beg, my friend. Not yet." Combeferre said in a clever little purr, and Enjolras trembled, unable to resist grinding his hips back against Combeferre’s clothed groin. "Would you object to my taking you in front of this looking glass, Enjolras? I will worship your body thoroughly."

"Will you narrate the action?" Enjolras asked in a soft, dreamy tone, momentarily closing his eyes as Combeferre stroked over his stomach.

"Of course."

"Please." Enjolras said politely, and Combeferre chuckled.

"You are a gentleman."

"I am in need of a fuck." Enjolras said bluntly, and Combeferre’s chuckle became a laugh. 

"You are  _not_  a gentleman.” He bit at the upper part of Enjolras’ neck, where the slender curve of it morphed into jaw, and Enjolras let out a short yelp of sound, pressing into the harsh teeth despite himself. “Do you need it?”

"I do, sir." 

"Then it would be cruel for me to tease."

"Yes, sir."

"I am going to tease."

"Yes, sir, I know." Enjolras murmured, his tone affectionate and fond below his anticipation, and Combeferre grinned against the other man’s skin. Combeferre leaned away, and Enjolras gave a sound of loss because Combeferre’s weight, his warmth,  _Combeferre_ , had drawn away, but he soon returned, setting a bottle of oil next to them.

"Keep your hands in place. You are not to touch your member. You are not to orgasm without my permission. You must adhere to your position as best as possible. You may beg." Enjolras let out a choked noise, because that paragraph was not finished not merely with a full stop, but with a final punctuation of a sharp, vicious bite to the flesh of Enjolras’ shoulder, leaving a mark he could see the very edge of in the mirror if he leaned forwards.

And then, dear God, Combeferre was a  _demon_ : his hands were all over Enjolras at once, first tweaking over his nipples with clever thumbs, grasping at his hips, stroking over the sensitive underside of his belly, the inner parts of his thighs, biting at the back of Enjolras’ neck, and the blond could not help but let out a flurry of mewls and moans and whines, shaking and writhing under Combeferre until the doctor stopped him still with a sharp smack to his backside, and Enjolras  _convulsed_  before he pressed back for more of the sweet, tingling pain. 

"You are needy." Combeferre said, and he delivered a sharp spank. 

"Yes." Enjolras yelped, his eyes tightly closed.

"Greedy." Another smack.

"Yes." Another moaned word.

"Duplicitously so. Do you know they all think you chaste?" And then Combeferre’s hand was on Enjolras’ cock, dear God, stroking the length of it in a decadently tight grip, regularly thumbing over the head and drawing loud vociferations from the very base of Enjolras’ throat. "For them to see you like  _this_  - look at yourself.  _Regardez!”_

Enjolras did, and he let out a noise at the sight. He looked debauched, his cheeks painted with a heavy flush of scarlet, his lips bitten pink, his skin covered over with a sheen of sweat that gleamed under the light of the candles around the room. He was trembling, his lips parted, and his hips fucked forwards greedily, their movements inefficient but  _glorious_  in sensation. His cock leaked between his legs, and Enjolras followed Combeferre’s hand up, looked at Combeferre’s fierce, possessive posture, the snarl on his face, and he let out a cry.

"I need, I need, I need, please, Combeferre, sir, monsieur, allow me release-"

"I will not."

“ _Combeferre_ , mon Dieu, I need, need you to take me, fill me, so-sod-” Enjolras let out a yowl as Combeferre pressed two long, slender fingers forwards, pressing against Enjolras’ entrance and fucking him open.

"Are you perhaps searching for the word  _sodomize_ , my friend?” Enjolras could not respond with eloquence, every thought of words a strain, and he let out sharp, animalistic whimpers and groans. This was the basest of Enjolras’ pleasures, and he was left unable to verbalize a thought, his neck bared for Combeferre’s lips and his teeth, his thighs spread and quivering for more. “You are a beauty like this, Enjolras.” Combeferre said, and the word was a possessive growl and a tender utterance all at once, in a fashion Enjolras could never hope to explain.

A third finger was added, and Enjolras lost all bare restraint he was holding onto, letting out  _screams_  of noise as he fucked himself back onto Combeferre’s fingers, and he could hear the other man’s breathing take on new speed and lose rhythm, and yes, yes, that meant Combeferre would fuck him soon and-

Combeferre’s hands drew away, an awful, cruel thing, a measureless torture, and Enjolras was begging without even knowing what he was saying, just releasing a garble of hurried words that might have made sense under scrutiny and might not have: it did not matter so long as Combeferre was about to fuck Enjolras with that  _beautiful_  cock of his.

And then he did, and Enjolras’ vision was  _white_  and  _bright_  and  _nothingness_ , and Combeferre stilled, going very stiff where his body adjoined Enjolras’. Oh God, no.

"Enjolras, did you just orgasm?"

"I’m sorry!" Enjolras said immediately, desperately.

"Did you just orgasm?"

"Yes, sir, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I got caught up, lost my control, lost temperance, I won’t-"

"Hush." Enjolras closed his mouth, and he regarded Combeferre’s reflection in the mirror before them. He had heard people speak of Enjolras’ wrath, of his fury, his passion, many times before this night.

No fury Enjolras could muster would ever compare to Combeferre when his restraints were taken away. The doctor was a silent man now, his lips pursed tightly together, his eyes narrowed, brows severe, his posture strictly controlled.

Enjolras released a short whimper. He wanted to offer more apologies, but they would make no difference now: Enjolras had disobeyed, had disappointed, already.

"Repeat to me the lesson today, Enjolras."

"I have value. I have worth." Enjolras repeated obediently, with a quaver to his tone. 

"Remember that."

"Of course, sir." Enjolras whispered.

"I am going to fuck you. You are no longer permitted to speak unless addressed, and you are not to make a further sound. After I finish, you are going to go and bring me the rattan cane above the fireplace, and I am going to punish you for disobeying. Is that clear?"

"Will that be the end of my punishment, sir?" Enjolras asked in a desperate tone, and he kept the words  _value_ ,  _worth_ , in the back of his mind. 

"I will inform Courfeyrac of your disobedience tomorrow morning, and that will be all." Courfeyrac would not add additional blows or further punishment, but it would be embarrassing for him to know he could not control himself. But then, Enjolras trusted his seconds with everything: his mind, his body, his submission.

"You will touch me later?"

"I would never neglect you, Enjolras." Combeferre promised, and the blond nodded. And then Combeferre was fucking forwards, his rhythm rapid and punishing, and Enjolras  _gasped_ , but managed to hold back from crying out.

This was the worst punishment. Enjolras was a vocal creature, and this, holding back whilst dozens of cries burbled and formed in his front with no release allowed them, was pain beyond measure. Thankfully, Combeferre was swift, and he soon came, pulling back. Enjolras moved to stand to go and get the cane, his thighs newly baptized with the evidence of Combeferre’s orgasm as it dripped down his thighs, but the doctor caught him.

"Wait." Combeferre bundled him into his lap, cradling Enjolras like a babe as he pressed a peck of a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead, firm, tender, protective. "Repeat the lesson."

"I have value and worth beyond the barricades."

"Again."

"I have value and worth beyond the barricades."

"Once more."

"I have value and worth beyond the barricades." And Enjolras  _believed_  him, and when he said the words a third time it was with a weakness and a crack to his tone, as if he were very nearly ready to sob (this was because, of course, he was quite ready to weep once his punishment was done with, and Combeferre would comfort him thoroughly). 

"Good boy. My good boy, such a perfect submissive." Combeferre caught Enjolras’ lips in a firm kiss, and Enjolras relaxed into the touch, letting Combeferre control it with his clever tongue, letting Combeferre possess him. "The cane. You’ll take fifteen strikes, and then we shall end for the night. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Enjolras whispered. After a pause, where Combeferre showed no sign of letting him go, he whispered, "And I adore you. You, Courfeyrac, the others. You said you respect me, admire me, love me, and it- it is mutual."

"Of course it is." Combeferre said gently. "You may go." And he released Enjolras, who went eagerly for the cane. The sooner he took his punishment, the soon he could take his aftercare, and then he could take his sleep pressed tightly to Combeferre’s embrace as he so loved to. 

Enjolras was a good submissive, Combeferre thought, believed firmly. Moreover, more importantly, he was a good man. 


End file.
